


Wild One

by Hopetohell



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Blood, Blood and Injury, Injury, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader-Insert, Sadism, Smut, he should probably be at the hospital
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:34:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27125281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell
Summary: He comes to your bed weak and wounded. You’ll shepherd him through the transformation that pain brings.
Relationships: August Walker/Reader
Kudos: 7





	Wild One

He’s already in pieces, but you will gather those pieces to yourself, gather them and crush them beyond repair. You will destroy everything about him, leverage his pain into ecstasy and shepherd him through this most terrible of transformations. 

Because he comes to you shredded, burnt and broken, wounds weeping through his bandages. Everything hurts him; you can see it in the tightness around his eyes, in the tendons that stand out in sharp relief along his neck. 

And the kicker is the erection that strains the front of his pants. He’s cursing and trying to kick out of his clothing, even as he wobbles on his feet, even as he’s pale and shivering, so what can you do except drag him by the shirttails to the bedroom, push him down onto the mattress and set about finishing his destruction?

It doesn’t matter how he survived, doesn’t matter how he managed to drag himself to your doorstep; all that matters is that when you press at his shoulder he goes down easy; he sits and then reclines at your unspoken command. And you drag fingers through the weeping burns on his face, still smelling tangily of fuel and icy wind. He gasps and shrinks into himself but he is also palming himself hard, like he never learned how to treat himself with gentleness. 

Like he never thought this could be anything other than a race to the finish. But there you are grasping at his wrists, feeling their cracked bones grind together, and it pulls a gasp from him that’s all wet and wild, all _please no_ tangled up with _fuck, yes, more. Give me more._ He shrinks away and pulls forward into that pain, driving it further into a perfect moment of agony, twisting his wrists in your grasp until his eyes cross and then roll back. 

And when he returns fully to awareness you’re so indulgent, so careful, in the way you press his wrists down to the mattress, binding him there with only a glance. And he doesn’t move, doesn’t dare move, lest you take your hands away. 

He is a good boy, _good boy, there you are. Stay fucking still and I will make it good._ And he listens, hanging on your every word, as you curl fingers over the wound on his forehead, a glancing blow that nevertheless is raw and wet and bleeds _so_ profusely when you get the scabs open, when you open your fingers wide and rub the blood all over his face, marking him. He knows that’s what you’re doing, too, and it makes him pulse with need even as he forces the rest of his body to remain still. 

_What did you do this time,_ you ask of him, painting bloody smears all down his body until you reach his cock, grasping him with both hands and marking him there too. And god, it’d be so good to sink down on him, to take him inside yourself and claim him, to squeeze his cock with your walls and his thighs with yours, to see if he’s hurt there too. But this isn’t about that, is it, and so you straddle his thighs lower down so you can continue to work him and watch his face as he comes all to pieces. 

And he does; he flies apart without fully understanding what’s happening, hazed and hurt, crying out as you tense your thighs against his because it turns out he is hurt there too; he will bear the bruises and a vicious limp for weeks after this but it will have been _so_ worth it. And when he spills over your fingers you rub it into his hair, up his belly, and you’d never get away with something like that except it marks him too, and he knows it, and it makes him _whine._


End file.
